


Pomegranate Seeds

by impatientseamstress



Category: Megamind (2010)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Blood, F/M, Hades/Persephone AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28446234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impatientseamstress/pseuds/impatientseamstress
Summary: She is not Persephone.He is not Hades.
Relationships: Megamind/Roxanne Ritchi
Comments: 33
Kudos: 118





	1. Devil's Bargain

She is not Persephone.

He is not Hades.

But there are parallels nonetheless.

She is taken.

It's dark and exhilarating and infuriating and she is not the least bit afraid. 

She is rescued.

It's bright and terrifying and exasperating and she is still not afraid.

But there is pomp and stance and ceremony and flashing grins and lights and people shouting questions from a group that until now she thought she was a part of.

Suddenly she is recast. She has a Role now. It wasn’t what she wanted. It wasn’t what she chose. Audience participation at its worst.

What she wanted has never mattered to either of them.

She does not like being taken.

She does not like being rescued.

When she is taken everything is frantic and loud and she is bound in place as she gets used to the cold again.

When she is rescued everything is bright and harsh and she has to remember to smile and nod and wave and try to snatch what small parts of her life she can before she is taken again.

Taken and rescued

Taken and rescued

Taken and-

There are no pomegranate seeds in this story. But one day enough is enough and she can hear the sounds of the battle getting closer. She can feel the lights from the cameras burning her up and the boom mikes swinging closer like battering rams and the chant of "Tell us, tell us, tell us" rising like a wave to crash over her.

Drowning. She is drowning in this game and she has no space to breathe.

And she just wants a moment in the dark and the quiet. Something to remind her this is not what she chose but she can still control it. Some of it. Any of it.

So she kisses him when he comes close because he is sad and brilliant and lonely and she likes him.

And she bites him as well because he is proud and vengeful and spiteful and she hates him too.

And she drinks six drops of blood, shining like jewels down her throat.

He does not expect this. 

He does not want to be bitten. 

He does want to be kissed.

His teeth are sharp. Not to look at but they curve back and there are jagged edges in his mouth and she wonders if the words he spits at her “Temptress...cruel...wily” have carved the hooks that catch and tear her lip so she is not the only one tasting blood.

She is rescued, again.

She is smiling and bright and haloed in the holy lights of fame and publicity, again

She is sick to her stomach for a week and anything she tries to keep down is vomited back up again until the taste of him is obliterated by retching and gagging and acid bile burning her sinuses.

When she wakes in the dark and the cold again she is not tied to a chair. She is on a couch, mismatched to the other furniture in the room and there are green eyes watching her from the shadows.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” He leans forward in a chair, head heavy in his hands and words harsh, “I’d have warned you but,” he shrugs sharply, “It was already too late.”

There is a tray of food between them and it smells amazing and she is starving. She has the feeling this is important but she is so hungry so she nods in acknowledgement and attacks the tray.

“I haven’t eaten,” she explains between grapes and cheese and bread.

“I haven’t slept” he returns dully.

She pauses, she does not think he means I haven’t slept for the thinking of you, for the taste of your lips or the look you gave me right before the hero rescued you.

He means I haven’t slept the way you haven’t kept more than the lightest broth down, the way the smell of food turns your stomach and you want to retch at the sight of a sandwich.

“What happened?” she asks because she cannot admit the real question is “What did I do?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he sits back in his chair, hand open to gesture between them, “Devil’s bargain,” his voice is slurring and his eyes are sliding shut, “Finish the tray, you’ll need it soon.”

He is asleep before she can ask what for.


	2. Welcome to my table, bring your hunger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I had more of this than I thought...

Its her fault.

He doesn't blame her, which is worse.

Technically she is aware that there was no way she could have known. But self-loathing rises up in her throat and she swallows it down the way she can't with food. Makes a nest for it in her stomach, lets it fester.

They are not nice to one another. Neither of them have much experience in being kind. They bite and snap and snarl and its ruthless in a way that their previous interactions, the ones with the deathtraps and danger and flames were not.

She snarls at him what kind of species evolves a connection that tortures its partners like a screaming child they are both failing to care for.

He snaps at her why she thinks it is his biology that is the problem.

Its not an easy arrangement, the one they make while they try to solve this. She gets given vile concoctions to choke down before the broadcasts while he slumps into meditative rest.

Turns out she can eat a couple of things, toast with Vegemite, fairy floss, ginger ale and seaweed salad. She never liked it before but now she eats three serves every day for lunch. She still hates fish but finds herself keeping a small tin of tuna in her bag for when she gets shaky from the lack of protein.

She deals with a lot of "concerned" questions from her coworkers. She tells work she has some kind of chronic illness, and she'll work from home and come in when she can. They are understanding in a way that has more to do with their interest in keeping first in ratings due to her cycle of taken and rescued rather than any true care for her situation. But it makes it easier for what they need to do.

She wears hoodies and soft cardigans to bed and passes them on every few days. He wraps himself in them and its enough to snatch a couple of desperate hours of sleep and a lot more hideous tossing and turning.

She gets a cape to pull around her shoulders in the morning and its enough to get her through a cup of tea and maybe some yogurt if she's lucky.

They try to keep up the game.

A _game,_ of course it is a game, she has been nothing but a pawn all along.

But when they are both weak like this it is stupid and dangerous and it doesn't take long before the hero finds out.

He doesn't understand. He makes a lot of noise about Stockholm syndrome and evil plans until she snaps and shouts that she never asked to be rescued.

There is a beat of silence and for a moment nobody moves before she whirls and states that she never asked to be taken either, but here they are so can she please have a sandwich because she is the one with a real job to do today.

The hero is disgusted. But the fish? Oh the fish _loathes_ her. She took something that wasn't supposed to be hers. She bound herself to blue limbs and a manic heart and corrupted a gift that should be holy and revered into bitter restlessness and cruel nausea.

She wants to scream that she had no idea, and it would be true. But sometimes she wonders if it wasn’t the rage in her heart that was really responsible for the bags under his eyes and the roiling in her gut.

She is poison. She is acid. Its what she's always been good at after all.

He brings her fried rice that she eats in her kitchen while he crashes onto her couch. 

"Half an hour" he mutters as his eyes slide shut.

She ignores him and eats her way through dinner and half a tub of icecream and her first piece of fruit in days while she works for two hours.

He doesn’t rouse when she shoves him so she gives up and drapes a blanket over his feet and crawls into bed.

She wants eggs in the morning. And coffee. God she misses coffee.

He's awake and sneaking off her balcony when she wakes up.

"Sit down" she orders flatly, "I want breakfast"

He fiddles uncertainly with the mug of pens on her table and blinks when she sets a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. She refuses him coffee at first and he snaps at her that he's slept enough and if anyone understands caffeine withdrawal it should be her. 

She snaps back that if he understood then he shouldn't be sneaking out of her house like a thief and let her have breakfast for once. 

After that they eat in silence.

He doctors the mug of coffee she offers with an excess of sugar and milk and she only finishes half her toast because her stomach is shrunk from not eating properly.

She starts working from home in the mornings, its easier that way to wait for the tap on her balcony glass and for a hunched figure to stumble inside and fall face down into sleep on the red cushions of her sofa.

She has video calls to make and work to do. When he sits up, swaying and blinking in the morning light of her apartment, she bundles him protesting into her bed while she sets up her laptop on her table.

It’s not supposed to be like this. A bond this stilted is not a healthy thing. Their own bodies start taking steps to survive.

He is stumbling and tired. She is starving and hazy. 

She scarfs dinner as he falls into her bed. An hour later she is blinking at her television, dizzy in her seat. Her eyes are screaming for sleep. She crawls into bed, back to its sleeping occupant and dreams of dark and cold and sharp hungry mouths.

She wakes skin to blue skin, curious fingers tracing her curves, aching want between her thighs. His eyes are drunk with need and she only waits long enough to confirm this is not some new part of this bond they are still trying to break before she buries her face in his neck and welcomes him into her body.

He breaks apart in her arms and she shivers to pieces in his. 

After, they lie quiet and uncertain. His hands are cool on her skin and her head is resting on his shoulder.

"I suppose this changes things"

"Should it?"

"I don't know"

She rises up above him, skin glowing with sweat, his teeth have marked her breast and she left a similar bruise on his throat. "Figure it out later" she whispers and kisses him again. 

They don't intend for it to become part of the arrangement. It was a one time thing, she swears to herself as he leaves again. Brought on by inconsistent food and sleep and that they are two people caught up in something they cant control searching for something they can. She had her life thrown around for years without succumbing to desires like this, she can hardly hold it against him for not having her fortitude.

_Lying_ , a voice hisses in her mind.

_More_ , hisses another.

She ignores them both.

But when he hesitates at her doorway, meets her eyes and looks away like he expects to be blamed, suddenly she is pulling him inside, tearing the clothes from his skin and his mouth is on hers desperate and consuming.

They don't even make it to the bedroom.

Sex is not a substitute for sleep or food but it becomes the first thing they do when he arrives. They are hungry for one another in a way that has nothing to do with the bond.

There is no going back from this. But they keep going anyway.


	3. Honey don't feed me I will come back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third and final installment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised this was done the last two times but it definitely is now.
> 
> Chapter title is from It will come back by Hozier

Autumn turns to winter and they keep going and going and going.

Until they can't.

The bond, inconsistent and unfaithful thing that it is, stretches and reshapes again and they are caught as unawares as the first time.

It is morning when it happens. The days are getting longer and there is a hint of green in the air and they are eating breakfast with familiarity, if not ease in her kitchen when his eyes go wide and he grips her sink and expels the contents of his stomach.

She blinks for a moment, before fetching a washcloth and soothing it over his neck. she hadn't slept well. She hasn't been sleeping. She'd put it down to, well...

He slips off her balcony while she cleans up the mess and she nearly falls asleep at her desk.

The next morning he makes it two steps into her apartment before he freezes and claps a hand over his mouth.

She sits up from her weary repose and looks at him.

"What changed?"

"We did."

"Well then."

He doesn't kiss her goodbye. She doesn't ask him to stay. 

* * *

She misses him. Lonely and spiteful, brilliant and hateful as he is. Between sex and food and sleep she hadn't realized other things had crept in too. Books that were not where she shelved them, blueprints mixed up in her research.

The fact he has his own profile on her Netflix account probably should have been a clue. But she's always been good at ignoring warning signs.

And he dreams of her. Clever and curious, treacherous and infuriating creature. The scent of her hair, the bite in her laugh. He should have known her utter refusal to be treated as anything less than equal would mean she would demand just as much of his attention away from her as near.

He goes back to prison. Spends his nights in solitary stillness, surrounded by inane childish paintings. Far enough away that he can put the revolt in his stomach down to prison food and boredom and not think about how much further the bond can stretch before it breaks. Watches her through screens and portals as he plots and plans and schemes.

She goes back to the office. Spends her days at a desk, smiles in front of bright lights and rolling cameras. Pretends the words "Relapse" and "unlikely" make her feel something.

They were not, are not, friends. 

Lovers. Oh yes lovers was easy. Lovers was a game where hate loaded the dice.

What do either of them know of friendship?

The hero is relieved. "Things can go back to the way that they should be," he proclaims proudly. As if any of this is his doing. As if its any of his business at all.

She stares until he leaves, uncomfortable but assured in his certainty. She goes home and laughs herself sick.

The hero's mother, lady of a thousand bountiful evenings takes Roxanne under her wing, dresses her in pastels and flowers.

"Rehabilitating her image" they call it, as though she still doesn't have his bites purpling on her breast and his nailmarks in her hips and a desperate clawing void where her heart should be. As though this time last week she wasn't clinging to the top of her kitchen cabinet, his hands hooked under her thighs, thrusting into her until she came with a scream.

It would be laughable if the city weren't so damn convinced by it all.

He doesn't stay away, not entirely. He couldn't if he tried. But she becomes used to seeing him on screens while she is tied to the tops of towers. High as the gods in the clouds above while he roils and seethes below. Before the hero catches him again and he spends more weeks locked in cold stone and unforgiving steel.

The fish collects her for those. But he doesn't speak to her anymore.

She grows to hate heights.

She shifts focus. Before she had been just another maid, pretty and pale and indistinguishable except where those impossible beings from beyond the heavens deigned to take note of her. Now she demands harsher tribute. She seeks out stories of courts and tribunals and watches the proceedings with unknowable eyes.

She speaks to the souls destined for his Tartarus. Thieves, killers, walking shades who don't yet know they're dead. She passes on small messages. Have you heard? Did you know? Would you think?

The letters start shortly after.

A trio of mechanine bots run between them. Cerotype is his, for messages back and forth. Berserk is hers, for when destruction is the only outlet she has to escape the flowers and pale colours become too suffocating for words.

Rust holds no loyalty to either, but he is welcomed by both just the same.

The letters are a boon and a mistake. They are still changing, this bond growing between them with thorny vines that catch and tear. The letters remind them they can speak, that not everything is a fight. That there are more resolutions than sex.

Hungry, lonely, unsettled in sleep they write stilted notes that grow into curious missives to serious musings.

I saw   
I heard 

I wish  
I dreamt

Would you  
Will you

Can we  
Should we  
~~~~

~~Miss you~~  
~~Love you~~

On and on and on it goes until one cool day she tries to bite into an apple and barely makes it to a wastebasket in time.

She takes her time, makes certain. Sends letters at midnight and has replies by morning. She tries as many foods as she can until all she is left with is ginger ale and seaweed and she knows what she needs to do.

She walks the city, the industrial areas, the docks, she finds a doormat and enters.

Hydraulic footsteps hiss towards her, "Get out"

"I can't eat," she says flatly. Water sloshes and seethes, "Fine" the fish snaps. She turns to go and inhales the scent of dark and cold and waiting.

* * *

She wakes on silk sheets in a room with no windows. She is alone and there is no sound, no light, no phone to tell her how long has passed.

The door slams open and an orange and blue blur stumbles in. He presses the door shut behind him and leans on the frame, weariness dragging his limbs down.

She sits up and waits.

His head snaps up and for a moment she is afraid, not of him, but of herself, how badly she wants. But there is no time for doubt, his eyes blaze and he flings himself at her, hands clutching, teeth sharp on her skin. 

If she'd had time, if she'd thought, if she'd planned a little better maybe she would have given herself time to prepare. Time for them to speak. To feel their way through this newest latest change. But impatience and recklessness go hand in hand and his aren't the only fingers tearing clothes and hers isn't the only mouth seeking the spaces they've learned make the other shudder and cry out.

"Mine, mine, mine!" is hissed into her neck and she kicks the tattered remains of her clothes away to wrap herself around him like ivy chokes a garden. Sinks her teeth in, marks him as her own.

The bond twists and tears, claws and coalesces.

And they begin again.


End file.
